


The Business of Broken Things

by Melancholy_Incarnate



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Blood and Gore, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, HOORAY, Huddling For Warmth, Injury, Magic, Magic Practice, Monsters, POV Third Person, Quests, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Snuggling to survive, Strangers to Lovers, The Helmet Stays On, and the friends we make along the way, geralt is stinky. give him a bath, it's not the destination, it's the journey, no beta we die like men, reader has a nickname
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melancholy_Incarnate/pseuds/Melancholy_Incarnate
Summary: A sorceress, hidden from the Brotherhood, has her secrecy and safety threatened by a mysterious man, grievously wounded and near death. Were she to let him die, she would be no better than a beast. But if he lives, who knows what secrets he may reveal?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 21
Kudos: 137





	1. The Lesser Evil

The moon hung large and bright in the sky, making the snow glitter and sparkle like scattered gems under its silvery gaze. The night was still and silent, the only sounds the slow patter of blood on snow and the crunch of hooves breaking through the icy crust. Geralt was glad that his last worldly sight should be somewhere so beautiful. But did it really have to be quite so cold? It seemed far colder than it should've been. Or maybe that was just the blood loss. Geralt didn't know. In all honesty, it didn't much matter. There was little hope left for him now. _How fitting,_ he thought, _that I should die in quiet ignominy, alone but for my horse. And not in combat with a monster, but bleeding out in the snow._ He gave a little smile at the thought. _Toss a coin..._

* * *

She woke with a start, dread creeping up her spine. The cool voice of danger whispered quiet threats in her ear as she slowly sat up. _The wards,_ she thinks. _It's just a beast that's crossed the wards._ It's happened before, and no doubt it will happen again. Some large animal comes wandering near her house and it sets off the wards, sending her into a terrified frenzy of defensive magical preparation only to discover it was a family of deer. _Surely, that's all it is?_ she tries to comfort herself. No matter how she tries to convince herself that she is safe, that this is just like every other false alarm, she knows this is different. 

She crept cautiously out of bed, careful to make no sound that could alert any potential enemy. Her heart pounded in her ears loud enough to wake the dead as she stalked forward on the balls of her feet. Silently steeling her courage, she cast a spell to speed up her reactions and readied a shield. Finally, fingers trembling and nerves set to a hair trigger, she eased the door open and peeked outside.

A horse slowly plodded through the trees towards her, some equine intuition guiding it toward a shelter hidden from the eyes of men. Relaxing just a fraction, the secret sorceress took a step outside. She bristled, however, when she saw the figure slumped in the saddle. The man looked quite dead, and she was fairly certain he wasn't breathing. Gentle as a summer breeze, she approached the horse, murmuring quiet, soothing words to the creature. It was only then, when she was almost close enough to touch the corpse, that she realized that he was breathing in short, shallow gasps. The not-quite-yet corpse was clearly on death's door; he was wrapped in makeshift bandages so saturated with blood that they looked nearly black under the moon's argent eye.

Pity for the poor man overcame her. She led the horse toward the door to her small cottage and —with the assistance of some magic, of course; the man was a fucking giant— managed to wrestle him off the horse, through the door, and onto the floor by the bath. As she maneuvered him past her window, a flash of silver caught the moonlight. Upon inspection, the metallic disk was a wolf's head pendant. _A Witcher._

Hurriedly, she tossed a ratty old blanket over the horse and tied her up in the sheep pen. She rushed back inside and lit a few candles, placing them on the floor nearby. The voice of reason screamed at her to just let the man die in peace, but she shut it out. Gods help her, she was going to do what she could to save the Witcher, reason be damned. In all likelihood, he would die no matter her efforts, but she had to at least try.

She set to work at once, removing what clothing she could without damaging it, but cutting away that which would hurt him to remove by normal means. Once his wounds were visible, she cleaned them as gently as she could. She wiped away crusted blood and sweat, revealing the raw gashes beneath. Every so often, the Witcher would moan. She gave him healing potions and water, careful that he didn't aspirate the liquid. He was lucky the rot hadn't set in, else she would've had to cut away the putrefaction. Even so, it was grisly work. She stitched him up like a child's well-worn doll, muttering curses that would make a seasoned whore blush. 

When the sun sat high above the horizon, she sat back to look at him. Now that the most urgent tasks had been taken care of, she noticed how filthy he was. It took another few hours to clean him to her satisfaction; this Witcher was not only a great heavy bastard, but also very dirty. With a damp cloth she cleaned his face; propping him against the basin and her knees she washed his hair. She lowered him once more to the floor, cushioning his head with soft pillows and covering him with a blanket. Only then did she realize how terribly tired she was. All night and well past noon she had worked to save his life. She was well and truly spent. Though a worthy effort, it was no less exhausting. With a soft sigh of cotton sheets, she surrendered to the sweet siren song of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll go back and clean it up later. Rotten as it is, it's at least something written.


	2. Worry-Weaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher wakes and we learn his name. We also learn a sobriquet of the woods-witch.

The capon made no noise as it died, thank the gods. Even the soft twittering of the evening birds was deafening. Her skull felt as if it would crack open and spill her brain into the cook pot. She had a splitting headache, and no wonder. Healing was most certainly not her area of expertise and the countless hours spent laboring over a man like to die no matter her skill was exhausting in the extreme, mentally, magically, and physically. 

With a practiced hand, she plucked the poultry, running sums in her head. Would she have enough food to last the winter? Enough emergency supplies? How long would her "guest" remain? What if he recovered and let something slip about the mysterious woods-witch? All of her musings only led to more throbbing agony coursing through her head and down her spine. Sighing, she resolved not to think about all of her logistical problems and play it by ear. 

Absentmindedly, she finished the bloody work of gutting the chicken and set to cutting it into smaller pieces. She set the bones aside to boil for broth for tomorrow's lunch and put the meat into the pot of boiling water on the stove. She peeled the potatoes and carrots and tossed them in, too, setting the lid on top and letting it cook. Grimacing, she washed her bloodied hands, thinking back to the unpleasant task of the night before. _I'd best check on him,_ she thought unenthusiastically. She dreaded seeing him. What if he had succumbed to his wounds? What if all her hard work had been for naught? Regardless, she had to check.

Quiet as the breathing of the dead, she made her way into the room in which the Witcher lay. _Sneaking into my own room... How backwards._ Her passage didn't even stir his snowy hair. She froze as she looked at him. It seemed all her fears were realized. His chest did not rise and fall perceptibly beneath the blanket, but she had to be sure. After all, she'd thought him a corpse once before. Perhaps she was just bad at discerning the living from the dead. 

Creeping slowly toward the unconscious and possibly deceased man on her floor, she lowered herself onto her knees and bent over him. Her hair brushed his neck as she put her ear to his chest. Flooded with relief, she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. His heartbeat was steady and worryingly slow, but it was undeniably there. Her Witcher yet lived. 

A hand suddenly came to rest on her shoulder, pushing weakly at her, trying to shove her away. 

"The hell are you? Where..." he rasped, dissolving into wracking coughs. 

"They call me Silver," she answered, grabbing a waterskin and lifting it to his lips as she propped him up once again with a knee. The Witcher drank in great, greedy gulps, water dribbling down his chin onto his chest. She took away the waterskin and he protested. Lowering him back to the pillows in an eerie parallel to the events of the previous several hours, she chided him.

"Hush. You'll make yourself sick, Witcher."

"Geralt." His voice was quiet and raspy, but not entirely unpleasant.

"Hmm?"

"Geralt. My name."

"Mm," Silver acknowledged. "Well, _Geralt,_ " she began, tasting the name. "I'll be back with stew in a little while. In the meantime, rest. You need it."

Geralt hummed as heavy eyelids descended over his lambent yellow eyes and he was dragged back down into the dark quietude of sleep.

* * *

The pulsing behind her eyes had not subsided since she'd checked on her guest. If anything, it had gotten worse. She was worried, and for damn good reason. _How in the hells was he awake so soon? The gods surely smile upon him._ She gave a tired smile herself. _Obviously they don't favor him enough to keep him from getting hurt in the first place, but still. Damn fast healer._ This Witcher —Geralt, she reminded herself— was a tough bastard, that was for certain. Silver just hoped he was tough enough to survive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you want short chapters (1k words, maybe) updated every few days or long chapters (3-4k) every week or two?


	3. A Rather Severe Discomfort

The storm came the sixth night after she found Geralt. He could manage to sit up on his own without passing out from the pain of it, but it was a gamble. That morning he'd been able to feed himself for the first time. Silver could tell he was frustrated by the slow progress of his healing. Sometimes she was, too, but more often she was just glad for another human(ish) presence in her home. It got lonely, living out in the woods with no one to talk to except for the mangy old cat that came by sometimes. Geralt wasn't much better conversation, but at least he'd sometimes reply with a word or, if she was extremely lucky, two. Apparently the full sentences he'd uttered when she'd first found him had been a fluke. But Silver persisted. _Small gestures and time..._

"Hell of a storm," she remarked. The wind gusted, as if it knew they were speaking of it. Geralt gave a grunt of agreement. "I've got to make sure the animals can survive it."

"Hmm."

"You know it needs to be done."

"Mhm."

That much out of him was a full day's conversation by itself. _Maybe I'm getting somewhere with the grumpy bastard,_ she thought as she pulled on her heavy cloaks and boots and stepped out of the warm comfort of home into the raging storm beyond.

The wind howled viciously, rattling the glass of the windows and shrieking through the trees with the fury of a woman scorned. Branches whipped back and forth in the tempest above as snow whirled about in a frenzy of blinding, obscuring white. Silver hunched her shoulders and leaned hard into the wind, resisting the desperate, clutching fingers of the storm. Every step seemed to take an eternity. Trudging through the snow, she struggled onwards to the henhouse and shelters for her sheep and goats. 

The inclement weather slowed her progress tremendously, but eventually she made it to the wooden structures that kept her livestock safe. Her hands and feet were numb, her lips and nose points of icy cold on her face. She ignored them and went about caring for the hens. She fed the chickens and made sure they could weather the storm in the little coop. Once she was satisfied that they'd be alright, she checked on her sheep and goats. They, too, had enough food and water. Most of all, though, it was warm. Silver enjoyed the change from the temperature outside for another moment before the horse she'd temporarily dubbed 'Stranger' plodded over and whickered softly. The Witcher's horse seemed a sweet mare, gentle and calm. She got on well with the other animals, at least, and that was really all that mattered. Silver fed the bay a leftover carrot she'd saved from supper and stepped back out into the biting wind. She made sure to secure the door tightly, and, the last task of the night done, began the frozen journey home.

A few minutes into the trek, the blizzard began to worsen. Silver hardly thought it possible, but it was undeniably so. The snow was falling faster and faster, as if trying to blot out the world itself and succeeding. The cold bit through her heavy layers, viciously attacking the flesh hidden beneath. She was soon encased in snow that leached away what little warmth she had. _Just a little farther... Just a little farther and then I can rest..._


	4. Beyond Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver's in a bad way and things look bleak. Is salvation truly beyond reach?

Ten thousand lifetimes seemed to pass as she trudged through the icy wasteland, each step a herculean feat. Her legs were leaden bricks, her arms not much better. Her bones ached when she moved, her bones ached when she was still. But she was never still for more than a second or two. If she stopped moving, she'd die. Probably die no matter what she did, being honest. She knew it. The trees knew it, too. They seemed to watch her like like vultures waiting until she collapsed. Like pale ghosts standing guard over what would soon become her grave. Just when Silver was about ready to give up and lie down to rest, she saw her home looming close from the blinding snow, not even ten paces distant. With renewed vigor, Silver dragged her weary body toward safety.

Clumsy fingers struggled with the latch. They'd stopped shaking a few minutes prior; now they seemed distant, unwieldy things. It took far longer than it should have, but she finally managed to get the damned thing open and she stumbled inside. The warm air hurt to breathe after the numbing cold outside. Silver coughed at the shock of hot air into frozen lungs, the spasms dislodging thick clumps of snow to splatter to the floor. She watched as it began to melt into a puddle at her feet. 

Her hands were sluggish and stiff as she fumbled to remove ice and snow-caked garments. The heavy cloth was pulling her inexorably down — a weight trying to drag her down into some icy hell. Finally, she stood free of hell's grip, clad in just her underclothes. She wobbled on unsteady legs toward the fire, mind slow, vision dim. There was something in front of it, but she couldn't tell what the dark shape was until she tripped over it and nearly fell. It grunted and looked at her with glowing yellow eyes. _The Witcher,_ her mind supplied helpfully. Funny how she'd forgotten about him. Seemed like it should be difficult to forget... 

"Fuck's sake, girl. Lie down before you fall into the fire." 

The harsh sound of speech jolted Silver from her stupor. She nodded belatedly and flopped down nervelessly onto the floor beside Geralt. He reluctantly lifted the edge of the blanket and she eagerly slid beneath, avoiding his lupine gaze. As her skin neared his, Geralt was amazed that she was still alive, let alone conscious. She was _cold._ She radiated it like a fire radiates heat.

_...Fuck._

If she died, he died. It was that simple. With a put-upon sigh, he wrapped a heavy arm around her and pulled her close. 

"Stay awake," he growled.

Silver gave a single weak sob.

"If you fall asleep, you die. Got it?"

She nodded feebly, but it was clear she was drifting off anyway. Geralt jabbed her in the spine. Hard. She yelped and jerked.

"Awake." His voice was a warning, deep and dangerous. One she dared not ignore. Rallying her failing strength, she supplemented it with will, hoping it would hold until she was safe enough to sleep. Shivers wracked her body as she gradually warmed. She shook so hard she thought she might inadvertently dash her brains against the maple planks. Next came the pain. The agony of sensation creeping back into numb limbs was nearly enough to make her scream. Instead, she clenched her jaw as tears traced down her face, _drip-drip-dripping_ onto the wooden floor beneath. She focused on the sound, so similar to the patter of blood on snow.

It felt like hours. Long, interminable, miserable hours. Slowly, the clattering of her teeth subsided, the frenzied shaking of her limbs faded. The cold that had set deep in her bones felt like a gentle nip rather than a ferocious bite. Exhaustion plucked at the will that buttressed the sagging walls of her resolve, pulling bits of it away until the once-mighty columns were thin and ragged— like to break at the slightest pressure.

She glanced up at the Witcher to find those luminous golden eyes staring unblinkingly into the fire.

"You can sleep now. The danger is mostly past." His voice was like great heavy rocks grinding together. His words sent those rocks crashing through the weak walls, sending them crumbling down, sending her into warm sleep.


	5. Risks and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her actions have cost her something she cannot regain on her own.

The morning came on silent wings, sweeping away the black of night to replace it with the dull grayness of midwinter skies. The birds did not sing, for they were wise enough to remain in the warmth of their nests. The wind did not blow, having exhausted itself with the tantrum of the night before. The silence was nearly absolute, the only sound the deep breathing of a sleeping witch. Geralt waited. Silver stirred, flexing sore limbs, wincing when her hand brushed the floor. He withdrew his arm when he heard the hiss of indrawn breath, the pace of her heart increasing as she slowly awoke. It would be best if they did not mention anything that had happened. 

"Thanks," she said, shattering that foolish hope. "For saving my life. I would've frozen."

"Mm." He didn't point out that he owed her a life debt, nor did he point out that if she died, he'd have no way to survive. If there was one rule governing his life, it was _"Do not depend on another."_ Geralt figured that since breaking it was unavoidable, he should follow the usually unacknowledged second half of that rule. _"If you must, **never**_ _let them know it."_

* * *

The day was uneventful and passed in empty hours. However, late in the afternoon, the monotony was broken by the appearance of the sun through the ever-present clouds. The witch's mood brightened along with the sky. With a smile, she plopped down onto the floor.

Silver lay stretched out in the slanted rectangle of watery winter sun streaming weakly through the south window. She seemed to absorb the light slowly over the course of several minutes. Her skin became ever so slightly brighter than the air around her, as though she were glowing with power. Faintly limned in light, she looked like some sort of heavenly apparition. The Witcher had seen a fair few mages in his time, but none who had used this particular flavor of magic. It was unfamiliar and, in his experience, the unfamiliar was like to get you killed. 

"You're looking at me," she said without moving or opening her eyes.

His yellow-eyed stare was flat as he replied with a single syllable, faintly frowning.

"Yes."

"I suppose that's fair," Silver acquiesced, opening her eyes to gaze up at the wooden rafters. "I'd wager watching unusual things is what's kept you alive for so long." With a sigh, she sat up and stretched aching joints. Her hands were stiff and swollen, some parts entirely numb, the rest excruciatingly painful. Her feet were no better, dark with blood blisters and so tender just touching them made her want to scream. 

"Fucking frostbite," she lamented. "Come here."

The Witcher eyed her warily, making no move to comply.

"Proximity to healing magic could greatly speed up your recovery. You're well enough to scoot over a little. Unless you want to wait three weeks to walk, I'd come over here."

Silent and sullen as ever, he did as he was bade, still watching suspiciously.

"If you could use healing magic, why didn't you do it sooner?"

"Multiple reasons. Firstly, it drains my magic like nothing else. Secondly, I'm not all that great at it. Sort of hit and miss. Thirdly, I didn't know much about Witcher physiology when you showed up half dead at my door. I didn't know if the magics I used could have affected you differently than anticipated and I was _not_ about to find out the hard way." She neglected to mention that she _did_ try a little healing magic on him at first, but quickly gave up when his heartbeat slowed so much she thought he was dead for five minutes. That information was not likely to inspire confidence in her abilities.

"Hmm."

She ignored his skepticism in favor of beginning what was likely to be a very painful spell. When one used a healing spell, all the pain and discomfort usually felt over the course of an injury's natural healing process was felt all at once. All the itches, aches, and pangs were experienced at the same time. It was no wonder most magicians didn't go into the medicinal arts. They hurt like hell.

Her face was set in grim concentration as she drew strange and intricate designs in the air. The light shimmered like the air in the desert, wavering and shivering above her hands. The only sounds in the room were her ragged gasps and the harsh fricatives and vowels of some unknown language, each syllable pregnant with power. 

The glow she had acquired concentrated in her hands as Silver worked, growing brighter and brighter until it cast dim shadows of its own over her face. The golden glow washed across Geralt's face, lapping at his skin warmly like a dog reunited with its master. It seeped into his flesh, into his bones, rejuvenating the battered and bruised tissues of his body like lanolin to leather. It seemed to be doing the same with her hands and feet, spreading across the damage and smoothing it away like nothing ever happened.

The glow faded as she drew closer to finishing. She spoke faster and faster, racing against the diminishing luminescence. Then, she faltered. It might have been a stuttered word or a mispronounced letter, but no matter the exact issue, the spell turned. It was only a fraction of an instant before Silver managed to dispel the enchantment, but that was enough. The magic had raced through the nerves in her left foot, burning, burning, _burning,_ until there was no feeling in that extremity except pain. Horrible, agonizing pain. She shrieked and clutched at the now-useless foot, trying and failing to repair the damage. She looked into the seared nerve endings, casting about frantically for a way to fix it, but it was beyond her meager talents. The damage was done. There was nothing she could do. 

With one stroke, she was crippled, and by her own hand. What else should one expect from the bitter bitch called Fate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too pleased with this chapter. I might rewrite it.  
> Edit: I rewrote it and it's better now.


	6. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has little influence on the story as a whole, but it sets the mood and leads into the next chapter, in which **Big Important Things** happen.

"You never told me how you got hurt. Or how you found this place," Silver remarked. A little green spark danced between the fingers of her right hand as she lounged on the bed, looking sideways through her lashes at the Witcher kneeling on the floor beside her. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed into a thin line as he tried to meditate. He really should have known it was a doomed effort; Silver was bored and he was her new favorite source of entertainment. _Only_ source of entertainment, rather.

Geralt's sigh was one of great annoyance, but it had little effect on the witch.

"So...?" she prompted.

"Mauled by a pair of griffins."

"And how did you find me?"

"Smelled like magic." His reply was terse and sharp, clearly signaling that he was not in the mood for her questions. He never was. 

"You are the _worst_ storyteller ever," Silver complained.

"Mm," he grunted.

She rolled her eyes, not quite ready to give up and submit to the crushing tedium of having fuck-all to do.

"So what does magic smell like?"

"Like fire, but sweet."

"Kind of like burning a sugar maple maybe?"

Geralt grunted affirmation.

"Do different spells have different smells?"

He breathed deeply, trying to draw on what little patience he had left. 

" _No._ "

Silver got the message and decided to finally leave him to meditate in peace, but not without a final parting jab.

"You're no fun."

"Hmm." He hummed assent.

Having given up on any semblance of conversation, one-sided as it may have been, Silver reached questing fingers out to the length of wood she kept by her bed since the incident of the previous week. The stick was smooth and dull, plain. It was no wizard's staff of legend or queen's scepter of law, but it was sturdy and good enough to support her weight. She stood with it and limped away, every other step accompanied by the thunk of wood on wood. 


	7. The First Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is almost time to go. There is nothing left for you here, and adventure beckons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so excited for this chapter and the next one! I hope you are, too!

"You're leaving soon." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," said the Witcher.

"Today?"

"No."

"Tomorrow, then."

"Yes."

Silver stood from the table where she had arrayed a selection of strange herbs and potions around a bowl of black ash from the fire. _A spell or a summoning?_ Geralt wondered idly.

"Lovely. Kill enough chickens for a few days' worth of food. It won't keep long enough to last the whole journey, but it will certainly help. The meat is yours. I'll clean the feathers and sell them for fletching," she said. "The ones you don't kill, set loose."

He looked at her blankly.

"Oh, I'm leaving, too. There's really nothing keeping me here. I'm tired of living in isolation. Might as well go find some village to advise and counsel."

He nodded. 

"I do hope you realize I'm traveling with you at least until the next town. It's not a choice, so don't bother protesting. I think it's about six days away by horse. We can herd my goats and sheep there and sell them. Split the profits 70-30. You really don't have a choice in this."

Geralt, never one to turn down a good deal, immediately acquiesced.

"That sounds more than fair."

He turned, ready to leave the little house and commit a poultry genocide, when a thought made him pause. 

"Why did you help me?"

"What do you mean?" 

"When you found me."

"I don't know. Why wouldn't I?" The bafflement in her tone was genuine.

"You know what they call me. 'The Butcher of Blaviken.'"

Silver leveled a gaze heavy as a sledge on him. The weight of it was not borne of malice or any ill intent, but rather the complete lack of emotion. Of anything. Her tone was completely empty when she spoke.

"When I was ten, I had my conduit moment. It was nothing special, just moving a fallen wagon without touching it. The Brotherhood came and took me to Aretuza, as they do all young mages. However, my magic is not like that of the others, as I'm sure you've noticed. They noticed, too. They wanted to test it. To see what I could do. For a few weeks, they increased the complexity of spells. But their spells were not intended for my magic. Most of the time, the spells just didn't work or they worked a bit differently than intended. But once, just once, something went wrong. Very wrong. No one knows exactly what happened, least of all me. The only thing I remember is that everything went bright hot. It _burned_. It was like the sun itself focused every beam onto me. I wiped out an entire farming village. Maybe fifty people, all told. I'm lucky to be alive. Most of the Brotherhood wanted to execute me. Sometimes, I wish they had. But I ran away the night before the vote. And here I am. You think you're the biggest monster in this room? I hope for both our sakes that you're wrong." 

Without another word, she turned back to her bowl of ash. With a heart a little heavier and a head a few questions fuller, Geralt left to kill some chickens.


	8. Howl

The witch and the Witcher sat cross-legged across from each other on the floor, the bowl of ash between them and the fire beside roaring hungry and furious. The atmosphere in the cabin crackled with tense energy.

Silver dipped her fingers in the black ash and drew fanciful designs in the air that shone with magic. It was a simple casting, but strong, sealed when three fingers touched Geralt's forehead, leaving three black spots in a triangle circumscribing the third eye. It hardly took more than a minute.

 ** _Can you hear me?_ **Silver asked silently.

"Mhm."

"Great. Now you had better hold onto this thing." She held up a clear crystal, fire glinting from its facets as she dropped it into his hand.

The obvious question went unasked, but not unanswered. "My magical signature is very... _distinct._ I have more power than all but the strongest magi, and they monitor that stuff pretty carefully. If I displace some of my power into that crystal, I look a much weaker mage and I can go virtually undetected," Silver explained. "That still leaves the problem of the unusual signature, which is what the transformation spell is for. I take the form of some other animal with a magical presence more similar to my own, and it hides me from magical as well as physical identification. No one will suspect a thing, especially considering no one has been crazy enough and powerful enough to use it and survive since Berrick the Apostate."

That last bit was greeted with the characteristic blank stare.

"Berrick the Apostate came up with this really powerful transmogrification. Unfortunately, it's also spectacularly dangerous and finicky. He also sort of went mad when his wife, Enid the Unwary, tried it and died. He murdered eleven people trying to bring her back, and when that didn't work, renounced all magic and became a hermit. I don't plan on failing at this, though."

She turned her back to him for a modicum of decency and shrugged off the cotton robe. Geralt averted his eyes. 

With a deep breath, Silver took the wooden dowel and placed it in her mouth, biting down hard as she drew across her skin with the ash. Her breath came quick and hard in her nose, and she whimpered and shuddered with every new line drawn. Black trails sparked and buzzed with power, swirls and sigils suddenly glowing red-hot when she drew her hands together. She _screamed_. The sound was inhuman. There was a shock of wild, animal terror through the psychic connection. _What if I did it wrong? What if I get stuck halfway?_ She tried to stem the flow of panicked babble, but it seeped inexorably out of her like blood from a wound. Her back arched and twisted as she writhed in agony. Geralt couldn't help but watch as she crawled into the blazing fire beside, spine lengthening, knees drawing up toward her hips, elbows rising up to her torso. Her ears grew sharp and migrated up to the top of her head, mouth and nose elongating into a snout. The fire burned lower as the transformation continued. With a wretched howl, she flopped out of the smoking fireplace, glowing like a hot coal. A few little embers fizzled out in long white fur as she lay panting on her side. 

The roar of blood in her ears was deafening, the pounding of her heart so heavy it was a wonder Geralt couldn't feel it. Actually, she wasn't sure he couldn't. Either way, she wasn't about to ask. She was far too tired.

The Witcher watched as the sun kissed the horizon, dyeing the snow red, remembering the warm hands that dragged him inside when it was his blood that stained the snow.

**_IMPORTANT NOTE BELOW_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, darlings. Sorry about the poor quality and lack of updates. I've got organ damage from a recent suicide attempt, so I'll probably quit this for a few months. I'll write more as soon as I feel up to it again. Love to you all.


	9. Wild(ish)

Silver sneezed. Scents that she could barely register before were nigh on overpowering. Sounds so faint as to be inaudible were suddenly deafening. But probably the most startling change was her vision. Everything was much blurrier and the colors were flat. She could no longer see red. Blues and yellows dominated, easily distinguished. Geralt's eyes were piercing as ever, while his horse (who she now knew was named Roach) was gray. It was terribly strange, not being able to see something which she knew was there and had been able to see her whole life. 

The three-legged gait gave her a little trouble at first, but it was fairly easy to walk once she got the hang of it. The only problem was how sore and tired her right back leg got, responsible for much of her forward motion as it was. The muscles ached and she had to rest often. She could tell from the way his jaw clenched that it peeved the Witcher. They didn't cover much ground that first day- just four leagues.

* * *

Her ears twitched, picking up the rustle of dead, dry branches on snow, keen nose raising to scent the chill breeze. _Vole._ Silver crept closer to the unsuspecting little beast, sneaking through the underbrush. Just when her hungry jaws were about to snap shut, one of her sheep noticed her and flew into a panic, scaring away her dinner. Disappointed and frustrated, she made her way through the trees back to camp.

Geralt looked up from sharpening his sword when she limped into the clearing. The fire flickered and spat between them, casting ominous shadows over the brittle trees. 

**_When we get to an inn I am taking a bath. I feel gross, and it's only been two days. There are so many burrs stuck to me I fear I may never be free of them._ **

"They get stuck in my hair."

**_At least you have hands to pull them out,_** she griped. ** _What I'd do for a brush!_**

Digging around in his pack, it seemed her companion was no longer paying attention, until he pulled out a simple wooden comb. Eager as a puppy, Silver bounded over to sit next to the yellow-eyed man, tail faintly wagging. He tried dragging the comb through her fur, but stopped when she barked. 

**_Ow ow ow! You have to pick the burrs out first, stupid._ **

He glared, but disentangled the bastard things, tossing them into the fire where they popped like corn kernels. Once she was free of the spiky little plants, Geralt ran the comb through thick fur. She preened, enjoying the feeling of being brushed. 

Absentmindedly, a heavy hand reached out and patted her on the head, scratching a little behind one ear with blunt fingernails. 

**_What are you doing?_ **

Geralt grunted and pulled his hand away. She noticed that he didn't apologize.

She also noticed that she didn't want him to.

But, exhausted as she was by the day's travels, she lay down and drifted off to the warrior's lullaby of whetstone on steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the struggles of having really long hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment what I can do better! I need feedback so I can improve and give you all the wonderful stories you deserve.


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